


R U Mine?

by canistakahari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek notices Stiles. Eventually, Stiles notices Derek noticing Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	R U Mine?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [affectingly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/affectingly/gifts).



> Affectingly prompted me with "Derek knows all of Stiles' favorite things and Stiles finally figures it out and then there is happy hot sex," so because I'm an asshole I went ahead and only wrote 2/3 of that prompt and completely bypassed the request for porn, which is totally what Amber was angling for. SORRY, BB. I can safely say this is utterly lacking in porn of any kind.
> 
> Amber also suggested "Actual Creeper Derek Hale" as a title, which I sadly didn't use. 
> 
> BUT HEY, FIRST TEEN WOLF FIC, SO. \o/

*******

It takes Stiles a pitifully long time to catch on. 

In his defence, though, Derek _really_ needs to learn how to use his words.

oOo

“Here,” says Derek, handing Stiles a package of Reese’s peanut butter cups.

“Uh,” says Stiles. “Thanks, dude.”

They’re sitting in the Jeep, participating in what Stiles will gleefully continue to call a stake out no matter how often Derek asks him to stop. Five minutes ago, Derek disappeared into the convenience store across the street. Now he’s gifting Stiles with his favourite candy. 

Stiles nibbles the edges counter-clockwise and smears chocolate on his fingers. “Hey, did you get—”

Derek hands over a bottle of Cherry Coke without even looking at him.

oOo

“Where’s the ham and pineapple?” asks Allison, hunting through the pizza boxes with a frown on her face. “I _know_ I asked for Hawaiian—”

“Ugh, it’s over here,” says Lydia, shoving the box across the table towards Allison. “You can have all of that; fruit on pizza is a tragedy.”

Scott is already perched on the couch with an entire large meat lover’s pizza in his lap, chewing methodically on his quest to eat himself into a coma. “This one is mine. I put in twenty bucks and that totally buys an entire pizza just for me.”

“Don’t get your arms anywhere near his mouth,” warns Stiles, raising his eyebrows. “You might lose a finger.”

“Green olives, chicken, jalapeno peppers, and _broccoli_?” demands Jackson. “Who the hell ordered _that_?”

“Me!” says Stiles, at the same time that Derek says, “That’s Stiles.”

There’s a brief, awkward lull in conversation, during which Stiles takes a moment to ponder the fact that even though he’s the one in charge of placing the weekly pizza night orders, Derek has apparently taken it upon himself to memorise Stiles’s preferred toppings.

“What?” says Derek defensively, slipping a slice of pepperoni and cheese onto a paper plate. “It’s an upsetting combination. I took notice.”

Conversation resumes quickly, but from that point on, Stiles swears that Derek evades interaction with him, or, at least, furiously avoids eye contact, though he can’t be positive.

Derek is just weird and Stiles should really be used to this by now.

oOo

When Stiles wakes up at quarter to four on a Monday morning suffering from the worst sinus pressure he’s ever experienced coupled with a throat like sandpaper and eyes that are quickly and hysterically revealed to be _glued shut_ , he makes the executive decision to stay home from school.

“I’m dying,” he croaks when his dad comes to check on him before he leaves for work. “I’m dying of the lurgy.”

“Uh huh,” says his dad, pressing the back of his hand to Stiles’s forehead. “Well, you don’t have a fever.”

“ _Yet_ ,” threatens Stiles wetly, shaking a used tissue in his face. 

“You sound like a drain,” says his dad. “I’ll be right back.”

Left with a bottle of flat ginger ale, a glass of water, a new box of tissues, a kiss on the head, and strict instructions to call if he feels any worse, Stiles’s dad reluctantly goes to work. 

Stiles takes some Sudafed, texts Scott to notify him of his impending death by mucus, and goes back to sleep. 

The next time he wakes up, Derek is looming over his bed. 

“Oh, my _god_ ,” says Stiles, after he’s instinctively grabbed and thrown his Little League trophy at Derek’s head (and Derek has caught it one-handed and put it safely down on Stiles’s desk like he can’t even be bothered to pretend like he was _threatened_ ). “Did you have to go to school to learn how to creep that effectively? Jesus _Christ_!”

“Scott called me,” says Derek, ignoring him. “You’re sick.”

“Yes,” says Stiles, rolling over and groaning. The Sudafed has cleared some of the congestion but Stiles still feels like his head is too small to contain the sheer volume of new material being produced by his sinuses. “Very astute. Why did Scott call you?”

“Because your dad called Scott, but Scott has lacrosse practice and couldn’t come to bring you some food for dinner.” Derek pauses with the look of a man carefully re-evaluating his life choices. “Apparently I’m next on the phone tree.”

Stiles gargles a snort that practically _bubbles_. “This will probably later prove to be a hallucination, so I’ll enjoy it while it lasts. What did you bring me?”

“Soup,” says Derek, carefully removing a Styrofoam container from the plastic bag he’s holding. “And a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, recognising the logo on the bag. “Is that—?”

“Tomato,” says Derek, his eyebrows furrowing as he hands over the soup and a plastic spoon.

“Dude,” says Stiles happily, climbing out of his nest of pillows to sit up against the headboard. “Rosetti’s tomato soup is my _favourite_.”

“I know,” says Derek, leaving the bag on the bed and turning toward the open window. 

“Nobody’s home,” says Stiles. “You could actually use the front door. You know. Just a suggestion.”

Derek rolls his eyes and vanishes in a graceful blur of leather. 

Stiles is halfway through the soup before he realises what Derek said.

oOo

“How did that box of Pop Tarts get in there?” demands Stiles, pointing accusingly at the grocery cart. “Dad!”

“What?” says his dad defensively, holding up both hands, palms out. “They’re on sale!”

“You know what else is on sale?” Stiles takes out the Pop Tarts and puts them back on the shelf. S’more flavour. Goddammit. Those are the best kind, too. “Granola. Delicious, healthy granola. And yogurt. Which is what you’ll be having for breakfast this week.”

“While I weep into my coffee and waste away.” His dad sighs. What a drama queen.

“Your artificial sweetener and skim milk coffee,” continues Stiles placidly. “I shouldn’t even be having this argument with you. I should be the one putting the Lucky Charms and the potato chips in the cart while you throw carrot sticks and spinach at my head.”

“Potato chips are on sale, too,” says his dad, raising both eyebrows. 

“Apples,” says Stiles. “We’re getting _apples_.” 

They’re in the checkout line when Stiles realises they forgot laundry detergent. 

He’s running to grab it when he turns around and collides with the _brick wall_ of Derek’s chest.

“Ow, holy crap, are your abs sculpted from _granite_?” Stiles yelps. 

“You forgot something,” says Derek. 

“I know,” says Stiles. “I was just about to go get it, they’re already scanning our stuff and I don’t want to lose our place in line, so if you’d just—”

Derek interrupts him by shoving the large plastic tub of Tide at Stiles, his expression flat and unreadable. 

“Oh,” says Stiles dumbly. “Um. Thanks?”

It’s even the little pods, the ones Stiles gets because he hates measuring out the detergent. 

“You’re welcome,” says Derek. He ducks a little to pick up his basket off the floor and Stiles is relieved to see that Derek _is_ actually shopping. He’s got chicken breast and mushrooms and a big bag of pasta in his basket; Stiles has trouble coming to terms with the concept of Derek cooking dinner for himself.

“How did you know this is the detergent I buy?” Stiles blinks at the label. Mystic Forest. The right scent and everything.

Judging by the furious concentration on his face, Derek rapidly comes up with several possible answers to Stiles’s question, finds them all lacking, and discards each one. “You smell like it,” he says finally. 

“Stiles!” yells his dad and Stiles gapes at Derek for one final moment, before saying, “I’ve gotta go, thanks!” and hurrying the detergent back over to the cash. 

When Stiles looks back, Derek is gone.

oOo

After that, Stiles starts to pay more attention.

It feels weird, knowing Derek has noticed all these tiny little details about him like his candy preferences and what he likes on pizza and knowing his brand of _laundry detergent_ , when Stiles wasn’t even fully aware that Derek had a working kitchen that he used regularly. 

He wants to chalk it all up to Derek’s poor social skills and his tendency to lurk in the open staring aggressively at people, but Stiles still gets the overwhelming feeling he’s missing something important. In fact, he’s pretty sure he knows _exactly_ what’s going on, but there is no way in hell he’s making the first move when Derek is so emotionally underdeveloped he makes Jackson seem sensitive.

So, Stiles watches. 

And he learns that Derek has about four different leather jackets he likes to cycle in and out of rotation, though having to retire them from service has more to do with irreparable claw damage and stubborn bloodstains rather than changing fashions. 

On Sundays, Derek always washes and waxes the Camaro. He visits the cemetery once a month, and even Stiles isn’t nosy enough to follow him in and see who he’s visiting, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.

Grocery night is Thursday, he only drinks 2% milk, and he always keeps a supply of peanut butter on hand. 

But the thing that Stiles notices most is how much Derek reads. 

Whenever he’s got a spare moment, a book comes out of nowhere and Derek melts into a dark corner and shuts out the rest of the world. He doesn’t seem to have very many; there are burnt out bookshelves in the Hale house and moulded boxes of books stacked in the living room and precious few intact books seem to have survived. 

He even keeps a book in the glove box of the Camaro. It’s a well-worn, dog-eared copy of _Treasure Island_.

It seems natural, when Stiles is browsing eBay one night, to bid on the cheap, like-new second generation Kindle he searches for on a whim. 

After shipping, it only comes out to like $35 and Stiles is absurdly pleased with himself. 

When it arrives, he loads it up with as many free books that he can download from the school library, including _Treasure Island_ , and finally finishes by putting the Lydia-translated copy of the bestiary on there.

Then he doesn’t give it to Derek for like three weeks.

“Can I have it?” asks Scott, his face doing that hopeful rising sun thing that took Stiles nearly four years to develop immunity to.

“No!” says Stiles. “I bought it for Derek!”

“Yeah,” says Scott. “Why did you do that again?”

“For reasons,” Stiles retorts sullenly. 

“You’ve never gotten _me_ a random present,” accuses Scott. “How is Derek even going to charge it? I don’t think he has a computer.”

“He can use mine,” says Stiles defensively. “The charge lasts for like a month.”

Scott stares at him a little like a Labrador waiting for you to throw a tennis ball. Expectant. Implacable. Confident in the knowledge that he knows something you don’t, namely, you are going to throw that ball, and he is going to damn well retrieve it for you.

He is going to retrieve it better than anyone else ever could. 

“No,” says Stiles. “The answer will continue to be no until you stop ruining my life.”

“How do I know when I’ve stopped ruining your life?” asks Scott. He sounds genuinely _curious_. 

“I’ll _tell_ you,” snaps Stiles. “But mostly I just need you to never talk to me about Derek again.”

Scott exhales sharply through his nose, takes a deep, steady breath, stands up and collects his back-pack, and says, “I gotta go. I’m meeting Allison.” When he’s halfway down the stairs, he yells, “BY THE WAY, DEREK IS ON THE ROOF!” 

And then the front door slams, Stiles’s window opens, and Derek is climbing inside. 

Before Derek can possibly give him something surprisingly thoughtful, like a pumpkin spice latte or a copy of _Mass Effect 3_ , Stiles jumps to his feet, grabs the poorly-wrapped box on his desk, and thrusts it into Derek’s face.

“HERE,” he says, too loud. “THAT’S FOR YOU.”

Derek just looks confused, but Stiles derives untold joys from the image of Derek Hale standing in his bedroom carefully peeling apart Spongebob Squarepants wrapping paper. For a moment he forgets to be embarrassed by what he’s done. 

Then Derek is holding the Kindle in his hands, looking at it like he’s not sure what it is or why he’s holding it, and Stiles immediately regrets everything in his life that’s led him to this point. 

“It’s a Kindle,” he blurts. “For you to read stuff on. It’s just. I noticed you liked to read, but you haven’t really got that many books, and they’re all growing fungus in them or have pages falling out, and with this, you can have all your books in one place. I put a bunch of stuff on there. Like, uh, _Treasure Island_ , because I saw you had that in your car and it looks like you read it a lot. Oh, and the bestiary is on there. I thought you might appreciate being able to read it on your own without needing, my—um, me.”

Derek looks at the Kindle, and then at Stiles, and there’s something weird and pinched about his expression, like he’s having trouble controlling the muscles of his face. “I know what a Kindle is,” he finally says. 

“Oh,” says Stiles. That is not what he was hoping or expecting Derek would say.

“Well,” says Derek. 

“Yeah,” says Stiles. 

Derek’s mouth twists and his eyebrows furrow, and he casts a sidelong glance at Stiles’s laptop. “So I can do research without you? Is that why you’re giving me this?”

Stiles blinks. “Uh. I guess? I mean, no. What? It’s full of books, Derek. Stuff for you to read because you—like to read. The bestiary was kind of...an afterthought. I thought you might want it.”

Something changes in Derek’s posture, like he’s let go of the slightest bit of tension. 

“Show me how it works,” says Derek gruffly. 

“Okay,” says Stiles. “Yeah.”

Later, after Derek’s gotten the hang of his new toy and a pizza’s been ordered and delivered and greedily consumed, Derek asks, “Stiles, why did you get me a present?”

Stiles shrugs. He’d been totally comfortable five minutes ago, but now he’s feeling weirdly defensive, awkward and embarrassed and too small for his own skin. “I don’t know. Why do you get _me_ presents?”

Derek stares at him blankly. “I don’t. What are you talking about?”

Stiles scowls. Well, that’s not fair. Now he’s embarrassed _and_ dumb because what if he’s reading too much into this and Derek hasn’t meant for his actions to mean anything at all? Stiles mournfully predicts this will end in tears. _His_ tears, because Derek is unlikely to cry over something this stupid. “Sometimes you just...buy me things. Food. That you know I like.”

Silence. 

“You watch me,” adds Stiles quietly. 

On the bed, Derek shifts, his jacket creaking a little bit, and he lets out a tiny, nearly inaudible breath. “I watch everyone.”

Oh, god. Actual creeper Derek Hale. Stiles can’t even with this. “No,” he says, “You watch _me_. The things I like to eat and what I want when I’m sick and what I put on my pizza! You notice things. You know what my clothes smell like!”

“To be fair,” offers Derek, “so would Scott.”

“Don’t talk to me about Scott!” yells Stiles. “We’re talking about you!”

“Are we?” asks Derek blandly. 

“I know that maintaining the aura of an actual functioning human can be difficult, but can you at least _pretend_ to be a real boy?” says Stiles loudly. “What’s Scott’s favourite candy bar?”

“I don’t know,” says Derek. He’s struggling to keep a lid on himself, but Stiles can see the alarm creeping into his face, a touch of panic just around the eyes, like Derek is making contingency plans that involve leaping off the roof and bolting into the woods. 

“What kind of soup does Lydia like best?” pushes Stiles. 

“This is stupid and I’m no longer pursuing this line of questioning,” says Derek tersely.

“What about Jackson, do you know what his clothes smell like?”

“God, I don’t know, _eau de douchebag_! You are actually insane. I don’t _care_ , Stiles!”

“You’re so dumb,” breathes Stiles, and then he grabs Derek by the collar of his jacket and wrenches him forward into a kiss that connects with such force that Stiles can feel his teeth vibrating.

Derek’s body feels exactly like Stiles suspects a marble statue would feel like were you to press yourself against it and try to shove your tongue inside. Hard, immovable, and completely unyielding. His hands go to Stiles’s hips for lack of anywhere else to settle, but his touch is stiff and uncomfortable.

For a moment, Stiles wonders if he’s still reading this entirely wrong, because what’s happening between their faces right now could hardly be classified as a kiss. Derek’s mouth is firmly closed, his body held rigid, and the tension thrumming through him is practically audible. An electric jolt of horror lances through Stiles, followed closely by crippling embarrassment, and he pulls away, planting both hands on Derek’s chest to push them apart, except for some reason Derek doesn’t let him. 

Derek has in fact trapped him now, his grip tight on Stiles’s hips. Stiles moans, “Oh, god, you’re going to eat my face, now, aren’t you? I’m sorry, I thought—”

“Stiles,” says Derek softly. “Stop.” 

Stiles stops. And stares. 

Derek’s face is no more murderous than his familiar default expression of disappointment that this is the world he’s forced to inhabit. It’s actually kind of lacking homicidal intent entirely, which is new and exciting. 

“Let’s try that again,” says Derek. Stiles immediately fails to comprehend any of those words in a meaningful or significant way. Then Derek lifts one hand from Stiles’s hip to gently cup the back of his head, tilting his chin up, and suddenly Derek’s lips are on Stiles’s lips, and they are definitely kissing. 

Stiles loses all the breath in his lungs to the warmth of Derek’s mouth.

“Oh,” says Stiles. “Wow.” 

“I don’t pay attention to things that I don’t need to know,” says Derek.

“Noted, man,” says Stiles, nodding. “Absolutely, totally, _thoroughly_ noted. So I was right, huh?”

Derek’s expression fights with itself for a moment and there is no clear winner between irritation and fondness. “I’m not qualified to answer that.”

“I am,” says Stiles, thumping a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “I’m totally right. You wanna get all up on me. You’ve been quietly declaring your love for me by knowing all the things that need knowing. Who taught you how to woo, man? It’s like you took a class called Seduction 101: Staring Through Your Window Watching You Sleep.”

Derek looks deeply pained. “I have never watched you sleep.”

“It’s a slippery slope,” points out Stiles. “I’m just saying!”

With an exasperated sigh, Derek clutches at Stiles and kisses him again, slow, curling his tongue into his mouth, until heat suffuses every inch of Stiles’s skin. 

Stiles is breathless when Derek eventually steps back, adjusts Stiles’s shirt, gathers up his new Kindle, and turns to leave.

He uses the door, not the window. 

Two minutes later, his father comes up the stairs and leans into the bedroom, a look of stunned suspicion dominating his features. “Kid, did Derek Hale just let himself out of the house?”

“Yeah,” says Stiles dumbly. “He did.”

“Right,” says his dad. There’s a long pause, pregnant with all the things that he wants to be saying to Stiles. Presumably there are so many questions he can’t decide which ones to ask first. “Do we need to talk?”

“Yeah,” says Stiles, huffing out a laugh. “We probably should.”

oOo

It turns out that, really, even when words fail him, Derek uses his actions well enough.

And when Stiles finds the little crumpled slip of paper jammed into his window sill that reads, “do you like me y/n?” it turns out Derek is pretty good at combining the two.

Stiles circles ‘y’.


End file.
